The hour badly spent

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Cosmo used to have this feature where they’d show a "candid" paparazzi shot of some overhyped celebrity couple out strolling along Rodeo Blvd. Cosmo would "decode" the couple’s body language, fashion style, choice of caffeinated beverage, and based on the details of that particular image in that particular instant, pronounce judgement about the entire history and nature of the couple. So like, if Ben Afleck happend to see a Ferrari rumble by and he’d think "that’s pretty kewl, but MY Ferrari’s better," Cosmo’s take would be something like "See how he’s being aloof and inattentive to J. Lo? NO WONDER they broke up."

Everyone knows that’s stupid. I know that’s stupid. My girlfriend knew it was stupid. We also both knew the article about "What his handholding style says about whatever" is stupid. Nevertheless, she recited, "if his hand is behind yours it’s a sign that he doesn’t have much invested in the relationship." Ha ha ha, I chuckled. As understanding dawned, I chuckled again, but nervously. "So wait a minute. You think that I don’t have much invested here, and that the proof of this is the way I position my hand in yours?"

"Let’s try it differently then," I said, when we got out of the car, in front of her apartment. We walked a few steps with my hand in front this time. Hands not fitting together right are terrible. "I love you, and you know why this feels weird? It’s because you’re taller." Then we went inside and had sex.

She’s not the only one who reads the glossies against her will. They’re all so sexy, with their bright colours and their fun fearless fabulous women of the month, promising to shed light on our most persistent insecurities, presented in a tone of the casual arrogance of the popular bitch in high school, and it’s supposed to come off as "confidence" and generate “mass appeal.” Jessica Ulrich analyzed this bullshit in Friday’s Collegian.

The articles that tend to be the most frustrating are the ones that propose to interpret what people really mean when they speak, suggesting we need conversation explained to us because it was not clear enough the first time around.

The only thing these articles "interpret" is that we are all insecure and stupid. Cosmo is currently running an article on "What His Down-There Grooming Says: His trimming style can hint at the kind of boyfriend he’ll turn out to be." After I read it I had to gouge my eyes out with a Sharpie. Anyone reading this blog can help me out by coming over and jamming this thing in just a little further. Please. I live in Moore Hall. Third floor.

The Internet has picked up on this trend as well — Google yields thousands of sites and discussion boards, each with its own ideas about the underlying significance of various phrases. She says, “I just don’t want to talk about it right now.” She means, “Go away — I’m still building up evidence against you.”

Well, that last part is actually true.

He says, “Yeah, that dress looks really good on you,” but means, “I’ve been sitting here watching you try them on for hours, and I’m starving.”

I say, "Yeah, that dress looks really good on you," but I mean, "Now take it off."

The lists are endless, and the translations range from funny to infuriating in their quest to enlighten us about a very generalized opposite sex.

But we cannot blame the magazines for insulting our intelligence, because they would have no cause to write these articles if not for one problem — people really don’t say what they mean.

We might hint at something or give a significant look, but how often do we just come out and say it?

Ladies, you might think you’re letting him down easy with, “I really, really like you but I’m just not ready for a relationship right now,” but if what you really mean is “I don’t feel attracted to you romantically,” isn’t it more kind to tell him the truth so he can move on?

Jessica, this is wholesome, realistic advice, but does it work in song form? I don’t think so.

On the other hand, this is pretty catchy:

Lately I have desperately pondered,
spent my nights awake and I wonder
what I could have done in another way
to make you stay
Reason will not pledge a solution
I will end up lost in confusion
I don’t care if you really care
as long as you don’t go

So I cry, I pray and I beg

Love me love me
say that you love me
fool me fool me
go on and fool me
love me love me
pretend that you love me
leave me leave me
just say that you need me

Anywho.

One thing I should mention before we rush off to speak our minds is that resolving to say what we mean doesn’t give us the freedom to say everything that crosses our minds, nor does it obligate us to answer questions we would rather not discuss.

Just because you think your friend’s corduroy jumpsuit looks like something a homeless man would wear doesn’t mean you have to say as much.

Actually that’s kind of funny, and since it’s funny, I would probably say it. But Jessica touches on an aspect of all of our social interactions that is nuanced and problematic. The truth sometimes hurts, but it doesn’t always have to. It’s one thing to be "honest;" it’s quite another to use "honesty" as an excuse to be an asshole (I’m looking at you, Fourum).

[Source: K-State Collegian]

Everyone knows I’m pretty flakey. Still, my movie-nerd friend, Silver Bullet, made sure to remind me that I had promised to go with her to her sister Erica’s wedding in Palm Springs.

"Sure. Again, when is it?"

"June something."

June something took place last week. Wednesday night we picked up the groom’s brother Donnie and the groom’s brother’s wife Palim from the airport at 11 at night and right away headed to the little resort town.

We got there two hours later, dead tired. Silver Bullet and I checked in; the room was massive. We sat around, amazed at its sheer amazingness. Then we fucked and conked out for the night.

Her phone rang sometime Thursday morning. Erica was perkily inviting us down to the pool for drinks. And swimming, one assumes. We were still groggy and tired, so no. She hung up and we fucked again, which I was almost too sleepy to do at all, and didn’t even have the presence of mind to make her get on top. Thanks for nothing, doggiestyle.

We woke up for real much much later.

"Is it really noon?"

"It’s the curtains. Hotel rooms always make you feel like it’s twilight outside."

Silver Bullet’s phone went off again; sister still bugging us to come outdoors and socialize, so we did. The pool seemed kind of small for a pricey resort in the middle of the desert. This disappointment, however, was mitigated by the open bar and the fact that everyone was dressed to show off as much skin as possible, which I believe is the only upside to California weather.

Donnie ordered me a vodka tonic, then a screwdriver, then another one, which I noticed they made with tequila instead of vodka. Strange, but best to do as the natives do; in Russia, vodka make YOU!

When we were done swimming, Silver Bullet and I walked around in search of a place to eat. The town is really just a big strip mall and everything looks the same. We settled on a Mexican place. The food wasn’t terrific and neither were the margueritas but at least they were big. Evidently I sucked mine down too fast, because when we got back to our room I lost my lunch.

Then I slept.

I woke up hours later, groggy again, but in time to get ready for the ceremony.

"Hey, if you still feel sick you can just hang out in the room during the wedding. I’ll come back afterwards."

"No, I can do this. This is why ya brought me right?" I got dressed and we walked down and across the street to wherever the ceremony was taking place (my memory’s a little tequilic) and took our seats.

So. The wedding happened. Priest, walk down the aisle, speech, kiss, yadda yadda. I’m sure I was supposed to be feeling something — everyone else looks happy and moved or whatever — but I think the tequila was feeling it for me, leaving me to sit around and be bored. When the thing was done everyone walked further up the street, to a bar and grill where reservations had been made. Still bored, I decided the time had come to start shit.

"So, most of your sister’s friends are assholes, right? Which one is the worst?"

"Christina."

"Which one is she?"

"You see the girl back there in the blacknwhite dress? She’s blonde. Yeah, her."

Later on I sat down with the rest of the family — well, the ones who seemed drunk — and asked the same question: which one of Erica’s friends was most turdish? Christina was universally agreed upon as the most vile, smelly turd in the entourage. Awesome! Although I prefer to actually know and associate with gossip targets (it makes the feel gossip much juicier), this was exactly the kind of thing I’d been waiting for! Besides the sex, of course. Sadly, only Silver Bullet was willing to provide a concrete example of said turdism:

"Once I overheard her say something really mean. It was kind of behind my back, but the way she said it, I know she meant me to hear it."

"Well?"

"She said, ‘if I were as fat as Silver Bullet I’d probably kill myself.’"

It doesn’t get much more douchey than that, does it? Silver Bullet is about the nicest girl I know (most of the time); you’d have to be pretty mean to insult her like that — just condescension, no provocation. Maybe Christina should just kill herself anyway.

"Thing is, she used to be really fat. It took time, but I’m pretty sure she only lost that weight from snorting coke."

"Whaddya mean used to be? Also: cocaine is a helluva drug!"

"Are you still drunk?"

"Fuckin tequila. Yes."

The last time we met: one day before I left for Los Angeles. A spring afternoon, in her car. I reached over to hug her bye.

"Don’t try to cop a feel."

I wasn’t. Really. But I probably should have.

This may have been the last time we would ever see each other, and really this was all we had to say to each other?

Really?

When I first met her, it seemed as though I could tell her anything. Anything.

Months later, showing her my favorite movie, she buried her face under a blanket and started crying and we could barely talk about it.

After that, we only spoke to each other in this flat, burnt-out tone. Around her, conversation was weird, alien, like we were really only just gesturing to each other in a dark room. She told me I was always trying to figure her out. And she was right. I just wanted to reach her. Why was it so difficult?

One morning I woke up in her bed. Fully clothed.

I had drunk A LOT the night before and my head felt like someone parked an Oldsmobile inside it.

Right then, I had to go. I hadn’t meant to pass out there in the first place. I needed some water and I needed it to taste like aspirin and I needed to go, and I needed all this very badly. But her hair was also right there in my face. Smelling not like chemicals or cleanliness but like her, fresh and sweet. I couldn’t move. Not yet. Even though I had to go, even though I knew that everything would be spoiled when she woke up, and I knw that this was the best it would ever get, and for the rest of the day I would both just go back to being in pain all the time and talking to her like.

It struck me, that morning, that this feeling of unnamed, dreary, half-hidden pain, illuminated this morning by sunlight and hangover, is actually always there. That it might in fact be the reason this thing between me and her, whatever it is, always feels so difficult.

And if I was ever going to cop a feel, that would have been the moment.

Thursday night the Perverted Shakespeare Professor jokingly claimed to "personify radical chic." Suspecting a ring of truth in this, The Hour Badly Spent immediately launched an investigation, and in the process, found out why I never scored a date with any of the hotties in that class: everyone wants to have sex with him.

This irrepressible sexual attraction cuts across all boundaries. It makes no difference whether the student is male, female, gay, straight, promiscuous, or celibate. Yeah, even the virgins.

Later on, the Saucy Aussie and Princess Glitter Bunny turned the tabloidy tables on me.  The Hour Badly Spent is not used to being asked direct personal questions. So, when grilled about who, exactly, I supposedly wanted to snog that night up on the hill, I suddenly got all shy and evasive. I didn’t really want to keep anyone in suspense. It was Saucy Aussie. Umm, duh.

Forgive me: I was afraid saying it would bring the drunken revelry to an awkward halt, and then I’d have no one to sit next to duing Tis Pity She’s a Whore. PRIORITIES!! Additionally, where my friend — Atomic Fireball Candy — is going for her doctorate, there are explicit rules against such fraternization. Hey! Don’t ruin this for me with news like that, I begged her, but it was too late. Also, someone recently told me that I "come on too strong." That’s putting it mildly. Between trying to crank out witty sex-related banter and playing like I am not in fact that interested, I probably come off looking half-insane.

Didn’t mean to get all livejournaley there. Anyway, so, I also tried to find out which professor’s raging sex drive has done the most damage to the integrity of the English department. Apropos of nothing, we discovered that East Midlands men have a reputation for being bad in bed. If this is so, how is it that they apparently manage to bone enough lit students to even acquire a reputation? Clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong. My old shtick was to find someone I really like, impress her with my ribald wit, and later on go down on her gently and lovingly for long periods of time. From now on, I will just work on timing my ejaculations to coincide with the ends of Ballykissangel commercial breaks.

The Poetess tries to peek at my diary journal every time I’m out with her. Thursday night I finally just said what the fuck and handed it over for inspection.

"I won’t judge you for anything I find in here." Not that it’s human nature or anything.

So, as she paged through, I felt the nerves and vessels under my skin getting all twisty. I drummed my fingers on the table. I fidgeted with my beard. I wiggled my leg up and down, insanely fast, like a meth-addled hummingbird. I noticed she was lingering on one page.

"Find something interesting?"

"It’s kind of sad."

The passage under scrutiny: I’m an optical illusion. That’s my secret. Look away and I disappear. Turn off the light and I don’t exist.

Breaking: when no one’s looking, I write reams of angsty, self-indulgent prattle. I’ve also apparently jotted down fragments of Pablo Neruda poetry. And that is definitely the worst of it what was in there (the prattle, not the Pablo). No sordid PILF fantasies (none that I’ve written down, anyway). No shocking gossip. No chronicling private embarrassing habits (I masturbate. A LOT). Am I really so dull that I have nothing to hide? Apparently so.

Therefore, the next night, chain-smoking at a party with Ariana and the usual frenemies, when Limitless Are Leaves asked about taking a peek through the big black book of secrets, I had no objection. And when Brandon, too, wanted to see it, I didn’t mind, although he did sort of seem like he was actually studying it and not just surfing pages.

The party room was so full of Swear Not By The Moon’s laughter that it spilled out through the windows and into the parking lot where the smokers were hanging out. Did she do coke again? No, she’s just always like that. Maybe she’s always high on coke.

I honestly think she is always high. Coke — so I hear, mind you — makes you feel hyper and really important, a perfect party drug. Swear Not By The Moon is a party girl. She’s got the look: annoyingly thin and blonde. She is sometimes fun but she also kind of sneers at you when you talk to her. She powerless to curb her ways. Because of the drugs, you see. Although I’m probably just mad because she never offers me any.

I and Limitless Are Leaves really only came to drink, not to party, so we sort of kept to ourselves and our vodka and let the cool kids do their thing (which, again, may or may not have been coke). It’s a good thing I was really drunk. It’s the only way to deal with certain situations and certain people. Or in my case, all situations and all people. It also somewhat explains why she and I ended up making out on the floor.

Is anyone curious about what it’s like to not have sex? The Collegian seems to think so. They weighed in on it this month. Twice. I wonder how much one could actually say about sex without having any subject material? On April 7, Ryne Witt shared his wisdom:

Casual sex for me was never going to be an option, because in order to have such an intimate moment with someone, I needed a certain level of trust with them. That trust can’t be gained in one night at a party or the bars.

Since that trust can’t be gained in one night, it would take a relationship to exist in order for me to have sex and, to be honest, everyone I have dated has never gotten to that point where I trusted them that much.

Blah blah blah blah mommy issues. Eric Davis followed up two weeks later:

I can remember the first time I tried to have sex with a woman who I didn’t know. From the minute we went back to my residence-hall room, I just felt weird. I will spare everyone the embarrassment and just say it didn’t happen. Also, I can’t remember a time in my life that I have been more embarrassed.

Details, Eric, details, or else we’ll be forced to engage in wild speculation. And you don’t want to let that happen, because we’re just going to assume she got freaked out when you told her you’re a furry.

Two of my friends keep going back to relationships they know aren’t healthy, but the sex comforts them. I feel like they have their self-worth wrapped up in their libido and if they sleep alone, they are unwanted.

Here’s the thing about a sex column: when I turn to this page, I expect to see titillating tales of frantic groping in the dark, not predictable bonerkiller haughty virgin preachiness.

There’s a special technical phrase for an otherwise painful relationship wherein one lonely party uses sex to medicate: your twenties. It’s not sad. It’s an awesome learning process. Plus, you get to fuck. Given the choice between - on one hand - an emotionally destructive mindfuck made better by the mutual celebration of sin and carnal delight, and - on the other hand - cultivating your self-esteem through enlightened solitude and frequent masturbation, I’d probably go with "fucking." Why in the world would you opt for a productive, healthy independence, when you could just be having sex instead?

 

Last night the Poetess observed that, though I visit fairly often, I have more or less been a "perfect gentleman" (I know, right?), having never once tried to "take advantage" of her.

I was kind of embarrassed, because I’ve been trying to cultivate the reputation of a lecherous, alcoholic geezer, and comments like that torpedo the effort of months of vodka and hard work (but mostly vodka). Nevertheless, I managed to think of two responses, both of which I believe were wholly appropriate and classy:

• "Poetess, I always think you are gorgeous, but especially tonight, with that red skirt and your hair slightly tangled and messy. And when you go without your glasses, like you are now, I could practically lose myself in your eyes."
• "I have nothing but the highest regard for your intelligence and wit. Frankly, your ability to pen verse makes me weep with envy. I believe with those things behind you, you will go far in life."

Unfortunately, since I actually tried to say them both at the same time, it came out sounding less like well-mannered verbal cunnilingus, and instead more like "Fuck off, Hippie."

In retrospect, "Fuck off Hippie" does not carry the nuance and depth of the sincere emotion I actually wished to convey regarding her sexiness; therefore, I am deeply sorry for any misunderstanding(s), and will be racking my brain thinking of how to make this up. Does anybody else have any ideas? Anything?

 

A new reader admires The Hour Badly Spent’s willingness to get out and go places, with or without a date. That’s right: nobody here but real troupers!

The Grey Lady: I’m glad I’m not the only one who goes to shows, events, whatever with or without friend accompaniment. I think its a sign of independence (or just bum friends)

The Hour Badly Spent: Hope your weekend’s going great too! I’m still enjoying the "independence;" I played a computer game and went to bed early. What are you up to?

The Grey Lady: Oh no! don’t say it that way. It ruins the sham of independence vs. loser friends. Tonight is closing night, strike, then cast party. I can’t imagine it’ll be anything like mud river stone’s party.

Sorry to burst the bubble, but independence really is a sham.

See, some people become the center of attention just by stepping into the room. Like, all they have to do is show up and suddenly throngs of fervent suitors are tripping over each other with icebreakers and devilish smiles. Because of this, sometimes these superstars just need a few hours of alone time to get away from the spotlight.

"The pressure," exclaims one superstar, to a preppy, winsome engineering student, as the student recites his best pickup lines. "It’s just too intense sometimes!" Then the student excuses himself. At last, some precious time alone for the superstar! Freedom! Independence! Exuberance! And I know exactly how that feels. Ha ha, just kidding.

The sham is that the human being is by nature a social creature. One cannot even declare independence without having somebody from which to declare it. What I have isn’t independence.

See, here’s independence:

Cheerleader A:     So, there’s a new collection showing at the Beach museum. Wanna check it out with me?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I do fancy myself quite the art connaisseur, I’m afraid it would be best if I saw it alone.
Cheerleader A:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Don’t get me wrong. I lrrve your company! But the contemplation of art, an inherently subjective experience, is best accomplished free from another’s intrusive presence. Get me?
Cheerleader A:     I understand….that you’re a pompous windbag! Zing! But call me later, K?

Cheerleader B:     Hey stranger! It’s Friday night! Wanna catch a movie?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I’m sure that would be quite diverting, I feel that your company would undermine the aesthetic experience for me. Therefore, I must decline your generous offer in favor of my own independence.
Cheerleader B:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Nice ass though.
Cheerleader B:     [blush]

Cheerleader C:     So, I’m not busy tonight. Wanna hang out?
The Hour Badly Spent: What did you have in mind?
Cheerleader C:     Maybe I could stop by your place?
The Hour Badly Spent: What would we do there?
Cheerleader C:     [blank smile]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrug]
Cheerleader C:     Hanky-panky?
The Hour Badly Spent: [another shrug]
Cheerleader C:     [Makes a circle out of her index finger and thumb. She "dips" the index finger of her other hand through the circle. She repeats this motion three times.]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrugs again]
Cheerleader C:     Sex. I’d like to have sex. With you. Like, tonight?
The Hour Badly Spent: Oh! [Thinks about this for a moment.]
The Hour Badly Spent: I feel that doing such a thing would cheapen what we have You’d lose all respect for me. You don’t want to lose all respect for me, do you? Great. Super. Well, I’m supposed to give a motivational speech to high-school underachievers, and then I’ve got yoga, but you should totally give me a call later! Kthanksbye!

Cheerleaders:     Wow, he’s so independent, so rugged! If only he’d open his heart [sigh].

This is closer to what it’s really like:

The Hour Badly Spent: I really like what you’ve done with your hair!
Minerva Magestica:     [pulling out her cellphone, reading a text message].
The Hour Badly Spent: There’s a poetry reading this afternoon. Wanna catch it together?
Minerva Majestica:      [phone rings]
The Hour Badly Spent: Then afterwards maybe we could go for dinner?
Minerva Majestica:      What? Sorry, I’ve really got to take this.
The Hour Badly Spent: [Hangs out for like 15 minutes, then when no one’s looking, fades into the wallpaper].

The Hour Badly Spent:         Like, I, uhh, wrote you a love note.
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   What is this tripe? Everything’s misspelled!
The Hour Badly Spent:         I, uh, well….
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   Well, is that it? I’m kind of busy, soooo.
The Hour Badly Spent:         Uh….

The Hour Badly Spent:  Let’s hang out tonight! I’ve got movies!
We’re All Size Queens:  I can’t. I’m so tired and I’ve got all this, errr, homework.
The Hour Badly Spent:  But it’s Friday. And it’s 7p.m.
We’re All Size Queens:  What is this, CSI? Quit stalkin’ me.

The Hour Badly Spent:   Let’s go out!
Sic Transit Gloria:          I look kind of grubby today.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I like you just the way you are.
Sic Transit Gloria:          Whatever.
The Hour Badly Spent:   Fine. I’ll come over, bring clothes, apply your makeup, and braid your hair.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t have any money.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll pay for everything.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t like any place within a five-mile radius, and neither of us has a car.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll carry you wherever you want. On my back.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll even get on all fours and gallop, like a horse. Girls like horses, right?
Sic Transit Gloria:          That sounds kind of creepy. I bet that if I asked, you’d even–
The Hour Badly Spent:   Gloria, you do not wanna know the lengths I’d go to.

Kidding again! The Grey Lady is absolutely right: lots of people here do kind of suck, and they all missed a superb performance of Dancing at Lughnasa this week. Is Dancing at Lughnasa better than shallow popularity? Absolutely, suckers!

P.S.: A pox on that Mud River Stone party!

Alex Peak and the rest of y’all think you’re all so stressed in college, probably because in high school you got good grades without studying or doing homework and still managed to be peppy and popular, but suddenly a few years later it’s getting close to finals and the teachers just fucking pile on those exams like Halloween candy and you’ve actually got to study. So listen up kids: that is not stress. Stress is fighting 10 miles of highway traffic to eek into a job where you juggle your coworkers’ backbiting, passive-aggressive bullshit with the demands of a boss whose idea of encouragement is not firing you, and after ten, eleven, twelve hours of that every day you fight traffic again going home so you can catch the last fifteen minutes of Grey’s, which is really all you wanted all day long, and as you nod off for the night, you ponder what your life has come to and has it all been worth it or whatever. Then you wake up three days later in a Mexican jail, with a heroine dependency and a case of the runs, right in front of two middle-aged Federales who are seconds away from cumming in your face, and you think to yourself, "shit, this is just like high school." The awesome thing about college is that once in a while you can just call up someone sexy and interesting, get high and play hookey, and just come back whenever you get around to it. I, unfortunately, am old, and those days are far behind me.

It was sunny today when Professor Potts walked into the classroom, all set to lecture us on modern prescriptivism, and apparently surprised that so many pepole were in the room. "I thought that with the weather turning nice, some of you wouldn’t show up today," she explained.

A dead hush fell over the room.

"The thought never crossed my mind," I said. Little ha-has burst and bloomed around the room. Yay!

It reminded me of the time a dear associate pointed out that I laugh at my own jokes, and they are frequently pretty dumb. I considered this carefully and realized the following five things:

1. People here hardly ever makes any jokes at all. Nobody speaks up in class. Nobody engages you in conversation — looking you in the eye, asking follow-up questions, expressing interest, et cetera. You whippersnappers are becoming progressively more timid and less interesting. The next generation will likely wander around in lead suits and only speak when spoken to. And OF COURSE it has crossed my mind that I’m simply that dull, which tells me you guys probably aren’t drinking enough.

2. When you’re alone and you think of something funny, you laugh. Not some parodic knee-slapping guffaw; just a private smile, maybe a half-muted chuckle. Is it so crazy to do this when you’re around other people?

3. My mom does it. Early on, people learn conversational cues and methods of interactions from their parents. With her, it seems kind of like a gesture of comraderie. Her laugh encourages your laugh; therefore, the two of you are, yes, sharing a laugh! Or is this not done in Kansas?

4. Evaluated in the context of my vast reserves of erudition, it seems I am, indeed, a pompous know-it-all blowhard, and that my shit is kind of funny.

5. Err, four things.

 

You somehow managed to hail mary right over my trenchant social analyses and hone in on the *other* posts. Those in which I invoke defense mechanisms and feed my delusions of grandeur with alcohol; the posts in which I am pompous, childish, desperate and whiney; petty, self-indulgent, shallow, obnoxious, and worst of all, too prolix (my bad). And in so doing you found that secret thing which unravelled me. Umm, sorry about that whole business, by the way.

And what, exactly, was it? That business?

Yes, there was a party, months ago.

She noticed me. Asked me questions. Got my jokes, even the sly, insiderey one I threw out just to see if anybody was listening. And yes, whatever, I know it was mind-numbingly awful, just like 95% of my "jokes."

Where’d my drink go?
Oh, was that yours, on the table? I finished it off. Forgive me. It was delicious; so sweet, and so cold.
I know what you’re talking about, she said, looking right at me.
Do you now? I tilted my head.

So yeah, I was weak and lonely and stupid (some things never change). One night there was a conversation. And promises.

And then, another night, she visited. Said all the right things. The sort of things you secretly always wanted someone to say to you? Those. "But how did she know?" I wondered afterward, dazed and smiling idiotically.

We partied in Lawrence one night. She invited me over some more; parties, get-togethers, studying, until by and by she didn’t. Then it was all missed phone calls, all sorts of excuses not to make dates, and then all of nothing.

As time wore on and the thing ran its course, I grew more ashamed angrier and angrier still with myself. I withdrew, even despite your kind efforts. Yours too, Sexy Communist Spy. Again, my bad.

 

In hindsight, this experience has helped me decide on something of great social imprtance which I’ve been mulling over for some time; I will no longer hit on any women under 40.

Except Dessa, of course.